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October
...
Chiba Mamoru is about to do something important.
He's standing motionless before a twenty year-old grave, soft moss meandering over its facade. The sharp etch of the epitaph has softened with age, even less legible than it was the last time he came here, but nothing about his memory has softened at all. He doesn't need to crouch and brush aside a few glistening cobwebs to read what's written there, but force of habit compels him to nonetheless.
----- Chiba, 1942-1982. Son and brother, husband and father.
Mamoru likes that, how it goes without saying that his father was devoted or beloved. How vivid the understanding, that he was eminently capable of being all those things to all those people. It's why he never brings flowers to his mother's grave, situated right beside this one. Roses are the obvious choice, but that feels...wrong. Something his father would do for her. Something the man of the house should do for her.
Mamoru isn't ready for that.
Not yet.
As he rises to his feet, and his other hand fists tightly around a small, round object in his jacket pocket, he thinks it again. Not yet. And maybe never. Son and brother, husband and father. Try as he might, there are some things he can never be. But what he's about to do will change everything.
He just doesn't know it.
Not yet.
...
November
...
They're sitting on his couch, he and Usagi, watching an oldie but goodie with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. Usa’s eyes gradually fall shut, then pop back open when he kisses the top of her head. Half asleep and so is he, until she shoves her icy hands in his pocket. Suddenly Mamoru's wide awake. His fingers steal into his other pocket; he holds his breath, not wanting to alert her – ah, there it is, pointed and waiting.
Waiting for him to do something.
Mamoru feels a little foolish, a lot paranoid. He's officially that cliche: so freaked out by the chunk of change he swapped for some sparkly Earth spit that he literally carries it with him everywhere. To sleep. To run. To shower (don't ask where he keeps it). It's been pointed out to him that a former jewel thief probably has the worst karma, so the faster he grows a pair and proposes, the faster he gets this thing off his hands. Well. Only one rock in his pocket now, and its name most certainly does not end with an -ite. That'll show the peanut gallery, Mamoru thinks cockily, and then promptly deflates.
He'd considered taking her to the park, back when the weather was warm. Rowing a boat out on the lake. Taking her hand in his own, and asking her to spend forever by his side. And then, faced with the very real possibility that his tiny, adorable girlfriend might actually capsize the boat with all that tiny, adorable excitement...he'd reconsidered. Maybe not. Maybe Crown Game Parlor, he'd thought then, a sudden burst of ingenuity. A ring hidden in a sundae, a question she'd never see coming, and he was all but congratulating himself on his coming nuptials - until he'd actually watched Usa hoover down one of those things, and realized he'd have to hide the Hope Diamond in there for her to see it in time and not eat it first. Okay, then. Perhaps a fancy dinner. A stroll on the moonlit harbor. A hot air balloon ride?
At this point, he's quietly resigned himself to being the object of unsubtle Senshi ridicule for years (and years and years) to come. Clearly, despite his documented Florid Speechmaking expertise, he has no clue how to go about this. How to ask the woman he's loved for a thousand years – could she love him for a thousand more?
"What?" she whispers, and Mamoru's jolted from his thoughts.
His girlfriend sits up straight, rubbing her eyes, then blinking at him. "I – Mamochan, did you say something...?"
Crap. He did.
He takes a deep breath – now or never – and digs the ring out of his pocket. There's a bit of flannel fluff stuck in the prongs – he hurriedly picks it off – and just like that, he's ready. Or as ready as he'll ever be. "Usa," Mamoru starts, and then stops.
She's looking at him in a way that makes him forget – despite himself – he's on bended knee next to a stack of scratched DVDs and bowls of melted strawberry ice cream. Long lashes tangled and heavy with sleep; beneath a blue so crystal calm, he wonders at the smallness of his fears. In her eyes, there's a glimpse of something beyond. Of serenity.
"Marry me," Mamoru says simply, at the exact same moment that Usagi smiles - a smile lighting up her small face like the goldwashed glow of a candle, a smile shaky and exuberant and wild - and says " - yes."
...
December
...
Though he's been carrying four rocks in his pocket – five, if you count the rock –continuously for the past month, he thinks today is the day to put them back in their box. To give them a little break. He's relied on their wisdom, laughed at their wit, and accepted their well wishes. It doesn't seem right to keep their spirits at his selfish beck and call.
What Mamoru can't admit, even to himself – it doesn't seem right that they're not there in body as well as in spirit, to celebrate his first step in this life he's making for himself. This life without them. So he puts them away, that the silent stones can't remind him of the one thing that's still wrong in his world, even though everything else is right.
...
January
...
Way back when, if anybody had tried to tell Mamoru that proposing was the easy part, he'd have laughed (maybe a little hysterically) in their faces. Now that he's a bit older, a bit wiser (by a whole month), he knows better. Proposing is nothing. Proposing is for the boys. Planning a wedding - that's where men are made.
In the corner of his eye, Usagi's chattering excitedly away with (at) their (her) calligrapher. The guy incessantly taps his long fingers against his grungy metal desk and references "his vision" and "the grand design", so many times in the space of an hour, Mamoru's starting to think it's part of his contract. Not really fair, and he knows it, too, but the planning is starting to put him on edge. And it's only just begun.
Even the standard questionnaire he's currently filling out for the caterer is, for all intents and purposes, out to get him. First question: how many guests on the bride's side, and how many on the groom's? Forty-seven....to two. Second question: how many bridesmaids, and how many groomsmen? Eight to one. What's he supposed to do if Motoki cancels? Third ques –
"How's this for the wording? Mr. and Mrs. Tsukino – "
"Kenji and Ikuko – "
"Kenji and Ikuko Tsukino request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Usagi to Mamoru, son of..."
"Oh, um, I don't know, I think it's kind of...formal?" Usa interjects, and he feels her fingers curling over his shoulder, cool metal of her ring against his hot neck. He hadn't noticed when she scooted her chair closer to his. "Since it'll be in my parents' backyard and everything. We just want to keep it simple, right Mamochan?"
"Got it," the guy says quickly, green eyes flicking from her to him. Mamoru belatedly realizes he's doodled in all the little "X" boxes on the questionnaire, blue ink marks neatly within the lines, and also utterly useless to the caterer, who they're meeting in half an hour. Sucks to be her, he broods. "Okay, how about 'Usagi and Mamoru invite you to celebrate...' "
"Sooo much better," beams Usagi, and the guy grins back, obviously unable to help himself.
"So you picked a place to have it and you didn't tell me?"
"I haven't really told anyone," she giggles, and Mamoru mentally takes five steps back. Wait, when did they pick a...? "I just figured – it's already hard on them, me moving out and stuff, so having the wedding there just felt like...less of a big, scary deal, you know? And we get to spend time with them and plan things with them. Do – do you think it's a bad idea?"
"It's a bad idea to print invitations without telling them first," the calligrapher gestures at his phone, a kookily retro landline. Mamoru briefly wonders if Usa picked this guy purely for his impractical office decor. "Go ahead, make their day."
"I hope so," she pulls out her mobile phone, a contraption he'd gotten her for her birthday, but now almost fails to recognize. There are so many blue and pink danglies all over it, he's not sure how she finds the dial pad. "Hi, Mama?" she smiles into the receiver. "I have an announcement to make..." her brow crinkles. "Knocked up? Um, no...Shingo? SHINGO!"
An unfamiliar anxiety balls up his stomach. Mamoru can't quite tell: maybe it's because this was just about the two of them, their precious secret, and now...well, he doesn't want Usa to announce anything, not just yet. Or maybe – as he watches her screech at her brother –
– maybe it's because he has no one to announce anything to. No one at all.
...
February
...
Parents love Mamoru.
It's not hard to see why, he thinks, a bit immodestly, but still. He's never had to work at it: indisputably smart, stable, successful. He brings fresh flowers and appropriate wines to every dinner, and has Usagi home before midnight, well, every night.
So he can't figure out for the life of him what's missing, when it comes to his relationship with the Tsukinos.
"That went well," he offers as they step outside, closing the door on the warm smell of soup and curry, the hiss of the faucet and the hum of the dishwasher. The air is cold and bright and brings stinging tears to his eyes. He wraps a superfluous arm around his girlfriend, wrapped up in a puffy down coat he's secretly dying to steal, but would never say so. In this cold, all the leather jackets in the world won't save him, but Mamoru's nothing if not...selective when it comes to his appearance.
"That went well," repeats Usagi. She interlaces her fingers with his and immediately shrieks loud enough to shatter a window. "Mamochan, your fingers are freezing! Ugh, go buy some fuzzy mittens or something, you stupid showoff!"
"Who am I showing off for?" Mamoru grins, tucking her poofy-purple-covered body into his side. "You already said yes, Odango."
"Good question," she counters. "Who are you showing off for? I bet those chocolates you got for my mom cost a fortune – was that like gold dust on them – ?"
"If she loved them, that's all that matters."
"No, if she loves you, that's all that matters." She ducks under his arm and plants herself in front of him. "Mamochan, you don't have to bring them nice stuff, and ask my dad to pass the salt, and be polite to Shingo. Ugh, especially not to Shingo. Just..."
"Just what?" he asks, a bit more sharply than intended.
Usagi stands on tiptoe and puts her gloved hands on either side of his face. Despite the layers of down feathers and nylon between them, her slender body feels impossibly warm against his.
"They love you already," she whispers fiercely against his frozen ear. "They just haven't figured it out yet, and neither have you, because you're all...really dumb. But it's true."
Mamoru chokes back a strained noise. "Usako, that's sweet and...uh...optimistic, but I'd honestly have to be really dumb to imagine that somewhere deep down, your father loves…me."
"He does," she insists staunchly. "He just doesn't know anything about you, except that you make me happy. Why do you two always talk about the same things? Oh, so, Mamoru, tell me which specialty you're interested in again? And you tell him, and he makes that horrible joke about the nurses, and you laugh out loud even though it's not very funny at all, and my mom says it's not very funny at all, and Shingo goes to his room without asking to be excused, and I want to die..."
"Come on, Usa, it's not always..."
"It's easier," she barrels over him breathlessly. "It's easier for you to be all cool and collected and ride over here with your big bike and black jacket. You don't talk about your day at the hospital, or what you ate for lunch, or what TV show you like best. And if they don't get to know you like I know you, then no big deal, because you weren't really trying, anyway, right?"
Her face has reddened slightly under her hat, bright blues sparkling out from under a few stray blonde bangs. Mamoru reaches out, pushes them behind her ear, and her eyes soften, but only a little. In this moment, his Usa looks every inch the (minuscule) queen she's going to be. And it's in this moment that he realizes: for the first time ever, he's going to have to work at this.
"It's easier, yeah," he hedges. "I mean, who really wants to know anything more than they already know about a hospital? Or how cafeteria food tastes? Or what I'm watching on - "
" – that little boy's TV, the one stuck in your ICU," Usagi finishes. "Prince of Tennis, because he wants to try out for the tennis club at his school. And you probably got soup and ended up trading with him because he's allergic to the eggs in the sandwiches and the nurse keeps forgetting." Her expression is very serious. "I love you. That makes everything about you not boring to me, and not boring to my family. So tell them whatever you would tell me."
"Okay," Mamoru says, his breath making frosty clouds between them. The tip of his nose itches, about to get runny. He gives her a quick kiss before he hops on his motorcycle. "Okay," he repeats reassuringly. Usagi still looks unconvinced.
Okay. But in his head: oh hell no.
...
March
...
To be perfectly candid, a large part of his discomfort in the Tsukino family's home has nothing to do with a member of the Tsukino family (as he and Luna view it), and everything to do with a recent...acquisition of Shingo's whose singular passion seems to be the consumption of Mamoru's footwear. The dog, not Shingo. Well, Shingo's a whole other story, but he's going through a "difficult" phase, as Ikuko describes it, so it's hard to tell if his contempt is really directed at Mamoru, or the world writ large. Mamoru could call all of his teenage years "difficult", to say nothing of his childhood, so he's not much inclined to sympathize. With Shingo. Or his dog.
So when Usagi's little brother – not so little anymore – opens the front door one afternoon, disinterested expression already in place, dog skidding across the floor behind him, barking its itty-bitty dachshund brain out...Mamoru's good mood automatically falls about ten notches. "Hey, Shingo," he says politely. "Is Usagi back yet? We were supposed to..."
Shingo mumbles something incomprehensible and turns around. By the time Mamoru's taken off his shoes and placed them neatly by the doormat, the teenager's already sprawled out in front of the television, video game controller in his hands, and the dog's frantically sniffing at Mamoru's sneakers. There goes another pair, he thinks grimly, and shoots the beast a look of darkest promise as he sits down.
"What are you playing?" he inquires after some time spent watching his brother-in-law to be mash buttons. It doesn't appear to be working out for him. The onscreen protagonist manages a last piteous gurgle, and dies. For the sixth time in as many minutes. Huh.
"You wouldn't know, you're too old," and for the sixth time in as many minutes, Mamoru wishes Usagi could've come home on time today. Of course, when he looks longingly over at the door again, the dog's slobbering on his socks.
"Hey!" he stands and claps his hands.
"Her name is Ripper," Shingo informs him without looking up from his game. "Like Jack."
Mamoru knows her name; he just finds it in rather poor taste. "Ripper," he begins tentatively. Ripper doesn't respond, possibly because the entirety of her head is stuck inside his shoe. Devouring it from inside out, just like the vile demon she really is. "Ripper!"
"What the fuck, man!" the teenager explodes. Alarmed, Mamoru turns on his heel to see the screen awash in fluorescent blood. "I'm never gonna get this asshole boss!"
He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a headache pulse into being behind his left eye. Language, he wants to say, but therein lies the path to scorn eternal. "Want me to try?"
Shingo eyes him dubiously, and after a second, shrugs and hands over the controller.
"I guess it's already fucked up as bad as it can be."
Mamoru's competitive hackles go up right then and there. He turns his whole attention to the game. At first glance, it's obvious that the boss is lurking behind a building that resembles nothing so much as a post-apocalyptic toilet. He immediately sees the problem. Impossible to shoot straight on, but easily sniped from above.
Three seconds later, Shingo's staring, jaw dropped, as he takes the character to the roof and opens fire. He's never played before, not being much of a gamer. But his aim, Mamoru has to acknowledge smugly – his aim has always been pretty damn good.
Three minutes later, the teenager's covering his back with the other controller while he's machine gunning the living crap out of the zombies guarding the perimeter. Or undead crap, as it were. At that last one, Shingo snorts in a way that might resemble a laugh. Rocket launchers > roses. Mamoru keeps that droll tidbit to himself, but only just.
Three hours later, Usagi bangs open the door. She drops her purse and shopping bags with a thud and a sigh, next to his thoroughly masticated sneakers. Ripper staggers over, all but comatose post-shoe-chewing binge, and gives her knee a rapturous lick. "Hi, pretty girl," Usagi croons, and looks up. "Sorry I'm so late, but Makoto found the perfect lace..."
"Hey, loser," Shingo says, and then gasps. "Holy shit, did you see that? Incredible – "
Mamoru doesn't say anything. He still hasn't noticed she's there.
...
April
...
As grapevines went, Ikuko heard about his patient and his egg allergy, and took it upon herself to bake the little boy an eggless cake to end all eggless cakes. Whipped and ganached and frosted to perfection, and hand delivered to Mamoru with a note that said – "For the real Prince of Tennis. XOXO, Tsukino Ikuko!"
That was two days ago.
Said cake is still sitting in Mamoru's fridge, confronting him with its chocolatey goodness every time he gets up for a glass of juice. He tries to not look at it, but it's too big to ignore. He hadn't had the nerve to tell Ikuko that the kid was allergic to gluten, too, and he hadn't had the heart to eat it, either, because something about that just seemed kind of messed up. He's seriously considering taking it to an orphanage and leaving it at their doorstep.
"You can tell my mom," Usagi says as he returns to the couch with oatmeal, and the same with banana milk for her. "She'll bake another gluten-and-egg-free one for him. It's no big deal, Mamochan, so stop feeling guilty or ashamed or whatever. You love chocolate! Just eat it."
"No."
"Then I'll eat it!"
"No!"
Usagi climbs into his lap, dislodging all of his files, and sticks her head under his chin. "You’re so silly sometimes, Mamochan," she murmurs, her breath warm and milky against his throat. Mamoru's about to say no, he's really not, when she says, even softer " – there’s nothing you could do or say to disappoint them. Ever.”
He opens his mouth again, but then Usagi gives his knee a mischievous tickle (he should never have told her about that spot) and finishes: “Trust me, I've tried."
...
May
...
Supposedly, the reason that they're putting together a gas grill right now – in the middle of a massive thunderstorm – is because Ikuko read the return date upside-down, and if it doesn't fit in the backyard, it needs to go back tomorrow. Mamoru and I can handle it, no problem, Kenji proclaimed cheerfully. He threw an old rubbery raincoat at Mamoru, along with a rather ominous look.
Mamoru is fairly certain the real reason is so that Usagi's dad can barbecue his face off and call it a freak lightning accident.
They can hardly see in the gray dusk, relentless streams of water sluicing down the pipes and on their hooded heads. Only the occasional flashes of lightning provide some semblance of visibility, far more than the flickering orange lamps in the backyard.
"Where's Shingo?" he asks a little hopelessly, moreso when he catches himself actually wishing the kid were here.
Kenji braces himself, and on the silent count of three, they lift the lid from the box. "Studying at the library," he grunts.
Mamoru lets out a loud chuckle, and then stops when his soon-to-be father-in-law fixes him with a look. "That's...that's great," he manages to exchange the laugh for a lame cough, mentally kicking himself in the face. "Studying is...great."
"Yeah, well. He wants to be a doctor."
Mamoru blinks. "Oh...I didn't know that."
"Neither did I."
Kenji's crouched on the ground, searching his soaked toolbox for something, so Mamoru can't see his face. Unsure of how to respond, he busies himself aligning the legs of the grill, loosely pushing the screws through the wheel caps. Kenji hands him the screwdriver, a few wet leaves stuck to the handle, and he begins to tighten the screws, peering at the holes to make sure he's got the right parts in the right places. They work in silence, until out of nowhere, the lamps flicker out, leaving them in darkness. Mamoru feels one of the screws slide free, and the leg on the left gives out.
"Motherfucking...!" it slips out, and immediately wishes he could just decapitate himself and save Kenji the trouble. He scrabbles in the wet grass for the missing screw, hands slipping through the dirt, and quietly fantasizes about a long, scalding shower, with maybe a gallon of Usagi's sugar cookie-scented soap.
Brightness suddenly floods his field of vision, and he swivels to see Kenji holding an industrial-sized flashlight over his shoulder.
"Thanks," he offers awkwardly, turning his attention back to the dirt.
Usagi's father leans closer, features intent. "I think it's rolled underneath. Here, I'll just – "
"Wait!" Mamoru blurts as he reaches for the lid. "Let me – "
"No, no, I got it," the older man yanks harder on the handle. It barely budges. "I got – aagh!" he thuds heavily into the grass with a cry.
"Are you okay?" Mamoru demands, grabbing the flashlight. His face comes into clear focus.
"My back," Kenji reaches around, wincing. "Oh – my back – "
"Don't move so much," Mamoru warns him. "You might make it worse. I'll run inside and call an ambulance – "
"No, you're not leaving me alone out here!" he wheezes, grasping at Mamoru's arm. His features contort with pain. "You're a doctor, for heaven's sake! What – "
"Okay, okay," he interrupts, striving for a tone of calm competence. Usagi and Ikuko are probably stuck in traffic. No way he can wait that long, not if there's something seriously wrong. Swallowing, Mamoru slides his hand under Kenji's back.
"What – what are you doing?" In the glare of the flashlight, fallen beside them, he can't tell whether the moisture running down Kenji's drawn cheeks is rain or something else. Mamoru hopes it doesn't stop raining, for both their sakes. "Is it – am I hurt really bad?"
"No, no, I'm just trying to keep you out of the mud," he says quickly. Without realizing it, he's adopted the same tone he uses with his patients, an easy, weightless tone he sometimes thinks soothes him more than them. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"
"No, no, uh," the older man gulps. "You're going to think I'm crazy – it's actually starting to feel...uh...kind of...better."
Mamoru's fingertips are tingling. "It's probably nothing serious, after all. Just a pulled muscle."
"Yeah, Ikuko always says I'm a big baby about this kind of thing," he chuckles, and then winces. He already looks a little less pale. "I just – you know, it's silly, but for a split second, I just thought – what if I couldn't walk Usagi down the aisle?"
"Shingo's man enough for the job," he jokes, but Kenji's brow furrows, as if in serious thought.
"He..." he speaks slowly, testing out the words before he releases them too fast. "He...looks up to you. That's a strange thing for a father to get used to. You know? But I think...I think you're good for him. And for her."
Mamoru tries to say something, but Kenji catches his uncertain gaze and holds it. "For us."
For the second time tonight, Mamoru hopes it doesn't stop raining. For both their sakes.
...
June
...
According to Usagi, Ripper is very sick. She's pooping with unnatural zeal, every hour, on the hour. Shingo is almost green with fear. Mamoru insists he's not a vet, and Kenji insists he take a look anyway. Mamoru complies, because...well. Anyway. Mamoru complies, even if compliance entails peering up Ripper's butthole.
Ripper farts, long and loud, right into his eye.
Between giggles, Ikuko explains that Usagi's actually the one who trained her to fart on command.
Right, Mamoru thinks, and exchanges a look with a livid Shingo. They file that information away for later use.
The next weekend is humid enough that while Ikuko and Usagi are poring over wedding magazines and Shingo's doing his calculus homework, and they're all stuck to their sweaty seats, Kenji slams down his beer and announces they're packing up the van and going on a family vacation. What the hell else is four wheel drive for?
Looking over Shingo's completed equations, Mamoru fiddles with his red pen and tries not to look too excited.
The following Saturday, they're all squished into the van. Kenji is driving way too fast, a look of unrestrained glee on his face. Luna is up front with him, and Mamoru knows if she could talk right now, she would be screaming her little kitty whiskers off. Ikuko is complaining loudly that Shingo's elbow is in her ribs. Usagi is poking Mamoru's shoulder, demanding to know why they all get to sit up front and listen to music while she's stuck in the back with the luggage and the dog. Mamoru and Shingo say nothing, until Ripper starts farting with real fervor. Shingo lets out a diabolical cackle. Kenji chuckles too, and Ikuko leans forward to turn up the radio.
"What did I do to deserve this family?" Usagi wails, pinching her nose, and Mamoru, an unruly grin spreading all over his face, wonders the same.
...
July
...
It's getting down to the wire, and whenever Mamoru's not doing rounds at the hospital or at the Tsukinos', he's at the florist's, or the tailor's, or the baker's. He doesn't mind. But this year, like every year, his birthday falls last on his personal list of priorities, and first on Usagi's.
He stumbles into his studio around 11:45pm, bone-tired and bleary-eyed, and almost misses her. It's not until he flips the light switch that he sees Usa, hugging her knees to her chin on his messily made bed. She's not wearing anything but a golden mantle of hair and a demure smile, and he feels the edges of his mouth turn up right away. "Happy birthday, Mamochan."
She gets up and crosses the small space between them. Mamoru's not sleepy anymore. He takes her wrist and pulls her close, and the feel of her soft, warm nakedness pressed up against his clothes makes his mouth go dry. She nips at his lower lip, questioning, and he inhales sharply. "It's not my birthday yet," he murmurs, and feels her giggle vibrating against his mouth, her fingers working at the zip of his pants. "Sooo...I guess you want me to stop?"
"No," he gasps, gripping the wall for support when she lowers her head to where her hands were. "No, don't stop – "
His phone begins to ring.
"Are you serious," Usagi begins as he fumbles in his pocket.
"It's – it's your mom."
She gives him a duh sort of look. "Don't answer."
"I have to!" he exclaims. "She probably wants to say happy birthday – "
"So?"
"I can't not answer," he agonizes, and after a few more tortured seconds, hits the little green button. "Hello?"
"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear soooooon-in-law, happy birthday to youuu," Ikuko warbles, and he almost drops the phone. He looks down just as Usa looks up, gives him a saucy wink, and redoubles her efforts below the belt. "Th – thank you - "
"So how are you celebrating?" Ikuko presses. "I was thinking you could come over tomorrow and I could make dinner..."
"I – ah – yeah," he manages. "Mm."
"Of course, if you don't already have plans with your…buddies," he can practically see her twirling a lock of blue hair round her finger.
"No – no buddies – "
"Oh, good, I didn't think so," Kenji interjects complacently on the other line. In the background, Mamoru hears Ikuko sigh, "Kenji...of course he has buddies!"
Both of them. Oh. Oh God.
The line goes too quiet. "Yup," he says nervously into it, just in case he missed something.
"Mamoru..." Ikuko trails off. "Is my daughter over there with you?"
There's a lengthy pause, during which Mamoru contemplates the end.
Kenji's voice comes through, loud and clear. "Usagi?"
...
August
...
Long after the little pink stick's been tossed aside, and she's thrown herself into his arms, somewhere between squealing and laughing and crying, long after they've gone to bed, foreheads and fingertips touching, their secret suspended between them in a glowing hush, long after she's fallen asleep, her fists tucked between her chin and his chest, he lies awake.
When he puts his hand gingerly to her stomach, it's his heart that kicks.
...
September
...
"I can't believe you need help with this," Ikuko clucks, stepping back and critically eyeing her handiwork in the mirror. "I’ve heard what a dapper dresser you are..."
Mamoru decides not to mention how the whole tuxedo thing's always just sort of happened to him, leaving precious little incentive to inspect the intricacies of the cummerbund. This woman is, after all, currently trying to tie a presentable knot around his neck when she could be weeping dramatically at her one and only daughter's side instead. "Am I ready?” he asks, blinking at his reflection.
Ikuko rolls her eyes. "You are. She isn't. Who would be, with all those silly girls fighting over her hair and makeup?” she reaches up, flattens out a stubborn cowlick. He remembers the first time she did that. He also remembers nearly tripping over a yowly Luna's tail, so startled was he at her unfamiliar, unlooked-for touch.
She bustles around him in comfortable silence, smoothing lapels, adjusting cuffs, and Mamoru's suddenly struck by how quiet she is, Usa's mother of all people, who he'd expected to be tornadoing about downstairs, ordering all and sundry out of her way.
"Is...is everything okay?" he inquires, uncertain.
Ikuko doesn't respond, presumably because she's got his boutonniere between her teeth. Even so, Mamoru starts to fret. He probably wasn’t supposed to ask, and…
"Better than,” she replies, pulling the flowers free. “I was…thinking."
"Oh." If she notes his total inability to make clever conversation, she doesn't let on.
"I was thinking…I had Usagi twenty-one years ago. Shingo four years after. And you can imagine – between those two and my husband, I haven't had a moment's peace since I was twenty-one myself.” A smile tugs at her lips as she smoothes the petals. “So I was thinking...how glad I am that it's you and me right now. You know? Just us."
She gives his boutonniere a final pat, and glances up, eyes warm and dark. For the first time, he sees a bit of his fiancee – almost his wife, he thinks with a thrill – in their shape. "And it's funny, since I expected to feel ten kinds of emotional today, but I feel so...calm, somehow, with you here. Maybe that's what Usagi means when – "
"Ikuko!" Kenji’s call drifts up the stairs.
"See?" she gives him a lopsided smile, and as much as Mamoru wants to find out what Usagi means when – he follows meekly at her heels, heading for the stairway.
Through the hallway window, Mamoru gets his first look at the Tsukinos' decorated backyard. The morning's dawned slowly but surely, the sun burning up beneath the horizon, touching the maple tree altar with a tentative hand.
From what he can see downstairs, all is chaos – guests wandering around, sipping from flutes and prematurely congratulating a desperate-looking Kenji. Shingo’s edging around the sides with two school friends, trying to sneak glasses of something clear that is not water. Mamoru’s sorely tempted to confiscate them.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Ikuko pauses on the top step, digging for something in her clutch, satin shoes dangling precariously from her grasp. Mamoru's about to ask if he can hold something – but then his attention's riveted by what she's holding.
His eyes widen.
"I didn't think she should see you before the ceremony – bad luck and all that," she explains as she holds out the stones, polished surfaces tumbling off each other. To Mamoru's sharp eye, they cast their own faintest radiance. Rose and milky jade, soft green and blue. In one deft motion, Ikuko's tucked them into his breast pocket.
"She told me you would want them there with you."
He doesn’t know what to say, but the solid warmth of the stones against his heart lends him courage. Mamoru touches her arm. "Thank you. For…" he trails off.
She laughs. "What else is family for? And I'm sure yours – ” she gestures at his breast pocket “ – they probably know their way around a bowtie much better than I do."
"Maybe, but they're – um…they’re not.” He swallows thickly. “Here."
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ikuko dismisses with a wave, and starts down the stairs. “Family always finds you, like it or not. Usagi said they probably just haven’t arrived yet.”
…
October
…
Mamoru remembers someone very much like him, on a morning very much like this. Brushing dew off his father’s grave, and wondering at the man who had once been. At the man he himself would become, and if he, too, would be loved. He remembers a boy who pulled a ring out of his pajamas, and asked a girl who fell from the sky to be his. A man who’s helped and healed, who’ll hold his daughter in his arms, not long from now. And who knows? as he digs his hand into his weighted pocket. Family always finds you, he thinks, and places a blooming rose at his mother’s grave.
“Mamochan?” Usagi’s voice carries across the twilit cemetery. “Mom’s making shrimp and – ” her tone grows sly. “Chibiusa hates cold shrimp. Are you ready?”
He stands up, brushes the leaves and cobwebs off his jeans.
“I’m ready.”
...
A/N: Written ages ago for the lovely jenbunny. My first Usa/Mamo effort - hope it's not too terrible!